The Silver Rose

  It beat against Miri’s heart, her head tossing, cries wrung from her throat as Simon brought her to wonder and surrendered to his release as well.

  A magic as old as time. But new. Unbearably new as Simon and Miri claimed it for their own.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE DARKNESS WAS SO HEAVY AND UNRELENTING IT SEEMED to press against Martin’s eyes. He could feel the dank cold of the stone wall pressing against his back where he was chained, and he pulled on his manacles, gritting his teeth in frustration as he tried to wrench them out of the wall.

  He knew he was locked up in some hidden underground chamber beneath the house. From what little he’d been able to see before the witches had left him chained in darkness, the walls looked old and crumbling, ready to fall down at any moment. Except, of course, the one to which they’d chained him. And that seemed as solid as a marble pillar.

  He’d flexed his muscles and yanked until his wrists were raw, but to no avail. He leaned back, panting, adjuring himself not to panic. “You’ve been in worse situations, Martin le Loup,” he muttered. Unfortunately at the moment he was unable to recall when.

  He was chained up and at the mercy of a mad sorceress who’d had ten years to plot her revenge. He’d stolen away from the farm, leaving Miri with that witch-hunter who was once again betraying her trust. And the only one with any idea at all of where he’d gone was Yves, but the boy had been so entranced with the feathered cap Martin had presented him with for helping with his horse, he might not remember much else.

  It was difficult to contrive any notions of escape when he couldn’t even see his own hands to tell if he’d made any progress at all in working himself free. If he had the light of even one candle stub . . .

  He should have heeded his old friend Pierre, who had often warned Martin to be careful what he wished for. For at that moment the door at the top of the stairs creaked and a flickering light appeared. It was hard to rejoice at the approach of a candle when you had no idea what sort of torture might follow in its wake.

  Martin tensed, squinting as the approaching light sent shadows flickering up against the walls. He heard a soft footfall of someone creeping stealthily down the stairs. He braced himself for God knows what, completely unprepared for the flash of dainty white nightgown and the tiny bare foot.

  It was the witch’s child. He still couldn’t accept the fact that she might also be his. He’d gotten only a fleeting glimpse of her before she’d fled the kitchen after Cassandra had named him her father. She’d seemed a wild, strange little thing with wide, haunting green eyes.

  She’d appeared both awed and afraid of him. He was rather surprised that she’d ventured down here alone to confront him. Equally surprised how his own heart thudded at her approach. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she froze for a moment, candle in hand. He squinted at the glow of light after the total darkness.

  Once his eyes had adjusted, he watched as she set the candle down on a rough wooden table. The taper’s glow haloed her solemn, thin little face. But her hair didn’t look as unkempt as it had been before. In fact, it looked as though she had been at some pains to brush it and tie it back with a pink ribbon.

  She came closer, her waif-like eyes fixing him with that unnerving stare. She just stood there for a long moment, saying nothing. And for once in his life, Martin, usually so glib with any female who crossed his path, couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this tiny being who might well be his own daughter.

  At last she clutched the ends of her nightgown and dipped down into a quaint little curtsy. “Good—good evening, Monsieur Wolf,” she stammered.

  Nonplussed, Martin said, “Good evening, um, Mademoiselle Silver Rose.”

  A small frown furrowed her brow. “My name is Meg,” she said.

  “A peculiar name for a Frenchwoman, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

  She perched on one foot, rubbing her bare toes about her opposite ankle. “Well, my name is really Megaera. But that’s not much better. Maman says I was named for an avenging fury, a goddess with snakes for hair. I don’t really like snakes,” she confided.

  “I’m not terribly fond of them, either,” Martin admitted. His remark earned a slight hint of a smile on that face that seemed all too serious for a child.

  She ventured to come closer. “Is it true? Are you really my papa?”

  “So your mother would have me believe.”

  “But . . . you don’t want to believe it.” Her small shoulders heaved with a crestfallen sigh. “I don’t blame you. It’s hard for me to believe it too.”

  “Why?” Martin asked.

  She reached out to timidly touch the sleeve of his velvet doublet. “Because you’re beautiful and I’m ugly. I’m thin and scrawny and my hair is the color of mice. I went upstairs and tried to brush it, make myself a little pretty, but it didn’t help.”

  Martin was moved by her forlorn expression in spite of himself. “No, you’re quite wrong. Your ribbon is—is very fetching. And your hair is not the color of mice. It reminds me more of cinnamon and as for being thin, I was rather scrawny myself at your age, but I grew.”

  Perhaps it was less than wise to draw such a comparison, say anything to encourage this child to think she might belong to him. And yet, the sadness in her eyes tugged at his heart. When his words elicited a quavery smile from her, he found himself smiling back in return.

  “Sometimes I wish I could conjure up a spell that would make me grow faster, make me prettier. But I don’t really like magic. It frightens me.”

  Martin regarded her in surprise. “But I thought you were planning to become a fearsome sorceress, rule over all France.”

  Meg shook her head sadly. “That’s Maman’s dream. Not mine. I don’t want to be the Silver Rose.”

  “What would you like to be?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “A beautiful lady who can dance and play the lute. But right now, I would just like to belong to someone. Be their little girl.” She looked up at him so hopefully that Martin squirmed, his chains rattling.

  “Ahem, you do belong to someone. Your mother.”

  The child’s bottom lip quivered. “No. I’m only her Silver Rose. Her dream. Her ambition. I’ve never been just her child.” She stole a bashful peek at him from beneath her lashes. They were remarkably dark and thick, framing her deep green eyes. “I’ve dreamed about you for a long time,” she said.

  “You have?”

  “Maman doesn’t like it when I daydream. But I’ve often thought about who my papa was and wondered, imagining that you might be a handsome prince who rides a great white horse.”

  “Well,” Martin said ruefully, “I have a horse, but I’m afraid there the resemblance ends. It’s no good, your dreaming about me, child. You’ll only be disappointed. I’m afraid the angels weren’t particularly kind when they gifted you with parents. A witch for a mother, and me . . . I am little more than a shiftless adventurer. I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of a father.”

  He tugged on his chains, displaying his manacles. “And, as you can see, my current prospects are severely limited.”

  She dared to come closer still. When she touched the place on his wrist where he’d abraded the skin in his struggles, her eyes welled with tears. “You must have made my maman very angry. That’s not a good thing to do, monsieur.”

  Martin sighed. “I’m painfully aware of that, child. But it’s kind of you to warn me.”

  “When she’s really angry, she makes people disappear.” She blinked back her tears, attempting to smile. “Except, if I’m going to save you, I have to be the one to make you go away.” She swallowed hard. “Even if I never see you again.”

  “No, mademoiselle . . . Meg . . . if—if you can find a way to get me out of here, I’ll take you with me.” Martin blinked twice, astonished by the rash words that fell from his lips. He’d barely set eyes on this child more than an hour or two ago, and yet he already felt some inexplicable kinship with her. Or maybe i
t was just one of his usual impulsive urges to rescue another damsel in distress, albeit a very young one.

  Her face brightened at his promise, only to cloud over immediately after. “I wish I could go with you, but I can’t. Maman would never let me. You—you see . . .” She delved into her nightgown, dragging forth a silver chain from which a medallion winked evilly.

  Martin stared in horror, scarce able to believe that even Cassandra Lascelles could be evil enough to curse her own child with such a hellish burden.

  “Mon Dieu,” he said. “Why would your mother give you such a devil’s charm?”

  Meg’s fingers trembled as she touched the medallion. “Maman uses it to keep us linked together and—and sometimes to punish me when I don’t do what she tells me.”

  Despite the child’s obvious fear of her mother, Meg’s small chin lifted with a hint of defiance. An unexpected spark of mischief crept into her eyes. She leaned closer to Martin, whispering. “May I tell you a great secret, monsieur?”

  Still reeling from his shock over the medallion, Martin managed to nod.

  “And if I tell you, you swear not to tell anyone? Especially Maman?”

  “I swear—” Martin started to cross his heart, but his hand couldn’t reach that far. “Your secret will be safe with me, ma petite. She shan’t wring it out of me, even if she threatens to . . .” Martin almost said “put out my eyes and cut off my ballocks,” but he remembered just in time who he was talking to. “Even if she threatens to feed me to the most ferocious of dragons.”

  An unexpected giggle erupted from Meg. For a moment, her pale face and those far-too-old eyes were transformed. Martin realized the little girl had likely not laughed often enough. If she truly had been his child, he would have made sure her eyes often sparkled with merriment. That she had pink ribbons and trinkets aplenty to help make her feel pretty. Instead of that damnable medallion, a locket of purest gold. Martin checked himself, astonished and dismayed by his imaginings.

  He had a tendency to stray into daydreams as heedlessly as his daughter . . .

  His daughter. The words stirred a strange, poignant ache in his heart. The little girl leaned closer, her lips cupped close to his ear. She whispered. “The medallion helps Maman keep track of me, but I’ve learned how to fool her sometimes. I use my imagination and pretend that I’m hiding in a great . . .” The child suddenly reared back, giving a sharp gasp. She grabbed at the medallion, her face going white.

  “Meg, what is it? What’s wrong?” Martin asked urgently.

  She stumbled back from him, her eyes widening in fear. “Maman, I—I wasn’t pretending hard enough. She—she knows where I am and she’s angry.”

  “For mercy’s sake, child, grab the candle! Get out of here! Go hide!”

  “It’s—it’s too late,” she quavered.

  Martin heard the door at the top of the stairs being wrenched open, the hinges screeching. Then the dread tap of the cane as Cassandra Lascelles began to descend into the underground chamber.

  Meg stood, frozen in fear like a fawn caught in the sights of a crossbow. Martin grated his teeth, yanking at his chains, his every impulse to leap in front of the little girl, shield her. But all he could do was watch, helpless as Cassandra descended upon her daughter like the fury Meg had been named for.

  The witch’s sightless eyes seemed to hone straight in on the cowering child. “What are you doing down here, Megaera?”

  The child moistened her lips. “I—I just wanted another look at Monsieur Wolf.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t come down here with some notion of springing Monsieur Wolf from his trap?”

  “N-no.”

  “You little liar!” Cassandra hissed. Her hand closed, white-knuckled, over her own medallion and Meg gave a horrible cry.

  She sank down to her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks while Wolf roared. “What the hell are you doing to her? Stop it!” He gave another savage wrench at his bonds. “If you want to torment somebody, why don’t you pick on someone more your size? Me!”

  “You’ll get your turn soon enough, my lone wolf.” Cassandra’s lips snaked back in a cold smile. “Right now I have to teach my daughter a lesson in loyalty.”

  Meg doubled over, gasping and clutching her stomach. “Maman, please don’t! Make it stop! I—I’m sorry!”

  Martin bared his teeth, a fury coursing through him more feral and primitive than he’d ever known. If he had been a wolf, he would have ripped out the woman’s throat. Meg’s sobs tore through him, her pain piercing him worse than any pain of his own he’d ever felt. The witch’s terrible punishment seemed to go on forever, until she finally released the medallion.

  Meg lay prone on the rough stone floor, her small shoulders heaving. Martin ached to gather her up in his arms. All he could do was glare up at the witch and curse her.

  “God damn you to hell! What kind of mother are you to do such a thing to your own child?”

  “The one who is going to make a queen out of her despite all the bad blood she inherited from you.”

  Groping down until she found the child, Cassandra seized Meg roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “There’s no time for this sniveling, Megaera. You must come upstairs and get dressed. The miasma you translated is ready, and we have an audience with the Dark Queen.”

  The child whimpered. “But I don’t want to go.”

  But Cassandra replied coldly. “It is high time that you saw what it takes to seize power. Learn to be ruthless enough to destroy all who stand in your way.”

  “For the love of God, woman, she’s only a little girl!” Martin protested. “Do you know what horrors were visited upon Paris the last time a miasma was released? The entire city was plunged into madness and savagery that lasted for days.”

  “That is exactly what I have in mind.”

  “And what if the miasma consumes you as well? The slightest shift in wind—”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Cassandra interrupted with a sneer. “But my clever daughter has devised an antidote to protect me. I shall not be driven mad.”

  “You are already insane,” Martin snapped. “Do you think the Dark Queen is a fool? Why would she even grant you an audience?”

  “Because I have something she wants,” Cassandra purred. “The Book of Shadows.”

  “You mean to offer her that terrible book?”

  “Of course not, you fool. I have had a book fashioned that will look very like an ancient grimoire. The pages will even be a little . . . dust coated.” She smirked. “The Dark Queen will not realize she has been tricked until it is too late. As for any suspicions Her Majesty might harbor, they will be lulled. How could it be otherwise when the book is presented to her by an innocent little girl?”

  Cassandra draped her arm possessively across Meg’s shoulders. The child shuddered, looking sick with apprehension.

  Martin strained at his bonds, suppressing a savage oath. “This scheme of yours is pure lunacy. At least leave Meg out of it. If you fail, do you know what the Dark Queen will do to her?”

  “Then we’d better not fail, had we, Megaera?”

  The child trembled, looking stricken as she yanked free of her mother and cast herself at Martin, her wet cheek pressed close to his. Clutching at his hand, clinging to him for dear life.

  “Meg,” he rasped in her ear. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll—I’ll get loose. I’ll come—I’ll save you somehow.”

  But the witch’s hands had already closed over the little girl again, hauling her away.

  “Damn it, Cassandra!” Martin snarled. “You can’t make her do this!”

  The witch gave a mocking laugh, tapping her medallion. “I can make her do anything I want, including kill you. But that’s a pleasure I reserve for myself.”

  Her hand clamped down on Meg’s arm, the woman groped her way back toward the stairs. Meg cast him one last glance, as though seeking to memorize his face before she was dragged up into darkness. The door slammed behind the two of
them with a dull thud. But Meg’s candle continued to burn bright enough for Martin to be able to inspect the metal object the child had thrust into his hand under Cassandra’s very nose.

  It was a small, sturdy hairpin.

  Despite the grimness of the situation, Martin smiled. With fingers that nimble and a mind that clever and bold, Meg was undoubtedly his daughter after all.

  ———

  ALL THE CANDLES had guttered out save one, its soft light playing over the naked planes and angles of Simon’s body. Miri snuggled, drowsy and sated in his arms, but she was reluctant to surrender to sleep. She’d waited too long for this night, and now that it was here she wished it could last forever.

  The peace she felt was deeper than any she’d ever known. She only wished she could be as certain Simon shared her feelings. He’d ever been a man of few words, and their lovemaking seemed to have even stolen those. He lay silent, his fingers twined in her hair, as her cheek rested against his chest, marking the rhythm of his heart.

  But when she raised her head to smile tenderly up at him, his features were so grave it cast a shadow on the afterglow of happiness that had lain over her since he’d claimed her.

  “Simon?” She faltered. “You—you aren’t having any regrets?”

  “Lord, no.” He brought her hand tenderly to his lips. “But I’m afraid you well might.”

  When she tried to protest, he laid his fingertips gently against her mouth. “I feel like I’ve been damned irresponsible, taking you this way. Giving in to my own needs.”

  “My needs as well, Simon,” she insisted.

  “It’s only that I’ve spent this past year haunted by what happens to young women when they’re caught in the desperate situation of having an unwanted babe out of wedlock. If I’ve gotten you with child, Miri—”

  “Would our babe be unwanted?” Miri asked wistfully. “Have you never dreamed of having children of your own? A son, perhaps, to teach all the things your father taught you?”